Miss Withers Regrets Read Free Page B

day and I’m dirty as a pig. Drink up, everybody, and I’ll be back as soon as I get cleaned up.”
    He was a little man, broad in the beam, with the breast pocket of his neat pinstripe blue suit crammed with gold pens and pencils. “Bet he comes down togged out in something sharp and two-toned, probably with suede shoes,” Midge said to himself.
    He must have said it aloud, for someone beside him asked, “What’s that?”
    It was Bill Harcourt, a large cheery man who was apt to tell hairy-dog stories on the third drink and pass out on the fourth. He lived, so far as any one could tell, on the food and drink he picked up at parties, which he could scent ten miles off, and on memories of his family’s pre-1929 money.
    “Hi,” Midge said. “Just talking to myself.”
    Harcourt nodded blankly. “How’s it by you? Still grounded?”
    “They let me go up in elevators now,” Midge confided, and looked towards the stairs. Huntley Cairns was turning to the right at the landing. It must be true, then, that he and Helen had separate bedrooms—separate suites, even, for she had turned to the left when she rushed up to change.
    Midge felt suddenly sorry for his host. Money wouldn’t buy everything, at that. Of course it would buy more than pants buttons would, which was about all he would have if the plant finally closed down. Test pilots rarely saved a good deal of money, especially test pilots with nothing to test and given a courtesy job fiddling around with blueprints and T squares.
    “I should have taken the job with Howard Hughes when I had a chance,” Midge decided “Then when production slacked off I could go out and help put up three-sheets of movie stars’ bosoms.” He laughed, and realized that he was laughing all by himself. Looking over the crowd, he decided he would just as soon stay by himself. He could see Ava Bennington trying to catch his eye, but he was allergic to Navy wives, especially when their husbands were ashore. Besides, whenever he was near her he found it difficult to resist the temptation to ask her if the old tradition was true—about call-house madams saving up their profits so they could retire and marry Annapolis men.
    Midge deftly managed to avoid her and then nearly ran into mountainous old Mame Boad, who owned half the village, including the house he rented. She sported a string of yellow pearls as large as .38 bullets around her wattled neck, and the reddish-brown dress she wore made her look exactly like a turkey. Her daughter Trudy, long in the tooth and very freckled, was close behind her. According to rumor, she was not allowed to smoke or drink yet, though she must be nearly thirty. This, Midge felt, called for a strategic withdrawal.
    He withdrew, heading out on to the patio, but there was a sprinkle of rain and he came back, to become involved in the little circle around Colonel Wyatt, a fierce old eagle of a man who had guessed wrong about the military ability of both the Japanese and the Russians, and whose life had become embittered thereby.
    Midge ricocheted off the edge of this gathering and finally found a haven in the library, a long narrow room lined almost to the ceiling with books. There was a desk at one end and a large fireplace faced by a divan at the other. The cushions were stuffed with real down, and Midge Beale sank into them with a deep gratefulness of spirit.
    There had been absolutely no intention on his part to doze off, as he swore later. He intended only to close his eyes for a few moments to rest them from the glare and the smoke. But he jerked wide awake some time later, to hear voices nearby. It took a minute or two for him to orient himself—and then he stiffened, keeping down well behind the back of the divan.
    “… and it could be a blind,” said somebody in a hushed, male voice. “Cairns is foxier than he looks.”
    “Nonsense. Look, here’s The Dark Gentleman, Beautiful Joe, and two Terhune’s collie stories. “That was a voice Midge